


Confused, Lost, Freckled Heart

by raeldaza



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 12:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3250316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raeldaza/pseuds/raeldaza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein sexual and romantic attraction can be different and confusing, and Feuilly honestly doesn't even know what he wants from Bahorel, but he knows he definitely wants that giggling girl's hand off Bahorel's arm, that's for damn sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confused, Lost, Freckled Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lady_ragnell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_ragnell/gifts), [sarahyyy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyyy/gifts).



> Basically, this is a fic about having romantic attraction and not sexual attraction, and how completely confusing and not fun that is. 
> 
> I also have no idea why I wrote this. I wrote it over the course of several days, all when I was supposed to be writing an essay about North and South (sorry, Elizabeth Gaskell). I adore this fandom, and this isn't even my favorite thing to read, but there is a sad under appreciation for just minor ships fics; usually it is just "here's two of your favorite minors characters in the background in one scene."
> 
> So, Bahorel and Feuilly get a highlight.
> 
> Dedicated to lady_ragnell just because she got me into Les Mis, in a convoluted way. Her Merlin fics made me read her Les Mis stuff, which I never heard of before. And then once I started I couldn't stop, and just read more Les Mis fics, which made me read the NOVEL. Plus, her fics are continuously lovely. Though this isn't even your ship (sorry), this is still a thank you for that.  
> Also, with more thought, to sarahyyy, since her fics were sort of a constant inspiration of "hey she's in college and gets shit done so maybe I can too."  
> Anyway, everyone else, enjoy.

The situation was awkward.

As a result, Feuilly had been spending far too much time outside of his apartment. It was a shame, since he only had a few hours of free time anyway, and it would have been nice to spend them relaxing in his own home and hanging around with his best friend instead of sitting in coffee shops pretend reading and watching Netflix on his phone. Normally, he didn’t really care about awkward situations; the only solution was to work through them anyway, so he might as well just power through, head first.

This was different, though.

This wasn’t catching someone having sex, or accidentally insulting someone’s wardrobe, or someone walking in on you in the bathroom.

The situation was particularly frustrating to Feuilly, because it had resulted in Bahorel getting hurt, and this stupid solution of his wasn’t stopping Bahorel from being hurt, which was normally unacceptable in Feuilly’s eyes. No force on the earth should upset his friend, and if something was, the usual plan of action was to eradicate it by any means necessary.

But this was Feuilly’s fault, so that wasn’t really an option.

And so he was sitting in a café, late in the evening, watching a documentary about people who felt sexually attracted to plants, and generally feeling about as shitty as he ever had in the past decade.

He just wished he could fix it. He desperately missed Bahorel; avoiding him made an ache in his whole body he didn’t anticipate, an physical need to be around him, a bone deep loss that made him want to hug and hug and hug and never let go. He found himself day dreaming in the middle of his jobs, something he had never been prone to before, just wishing he was playing video games or talking or doing something stupid. He had 133 started and abandoned texts, and half as many calls that were ended before the first ring. He simply didn’t know what to do; he just wished he could take back the past week, go back to normal, so he could jump on Bahorel’s back and laugh and laugh and laugh and have someone to go home to that made the day feel worth it.

But instead, he was 45 minutes into the documentary, and still completely uninterested in why people would want to fuck plants.

The bell on the door made a sharp jingle, making Feuilly look up absently, not really paying attention. He did a quick double take when he saw it was Bahorel, making him accidently fumble his phone, which dropped by his feet. Cursing, he bent to pick it up. When he sat up, Bahorel was all of six inches from him, making him do another double take, and having a mini-heart palpitation.

“What the hell, B, stop doing that,” he snapped, placing a hand over his heart. Bahorel only grinned.

“Not when you have that kind of fun reaction,” He responded cheerily. He blew into the Feuilly’s face, which made Feuilly put his hand to his forehead and push him back roughly.

“You’re a dick.”

“Leave the criticisms for when I don’t have a date, okay, buddy?” Feuilly’s gaze snapped to Bahorel’s right, where a petite blonde girl stood, arms crossed, who had intermittently been giggling at them acting like fools. Feuilly’s eyes narrowed, and his heart did an odd clench, which he completely ignored. He unconsciously crossed his legs, and leaned forward.

“Who is this?” He asked.

“Lily,” Bahorel said, gesturing the girl forward, who walked forward, grabbing Bahorel’s left arm, giggling again. “This is my best friend, Feuilly. Feuilly, this is Lily, who I have French with. We’re just out for coffee and bowling.” Feuilly cocked his head, eyes focused on where her hand met Bahorel’s arm. He put on a wicked smile, and suddenly felt the irrepressible urge to be very, very mean, and he had no idea why.

And from there, the day took a drastic turn down, which was kind of a surprise, considering how low the standard was in the first place.

* * *

Feuilly got home first, even after stopping off at Combeferre’s to have a rather frantic, yet enlightening, conversation. He started to make brownies, hoping that maybe he could bribe Bahorel into forgiving him, but he wasn’t that hopeful. His pessimism seemed founded when Bahorel viciously opened the door, making sure to slam it about as hard as physically possible without causing irreparable damage. The glasses in the cupboard shook. Feuilly heard him shove his coat in the closet, and felt rather than saw him approach.

“What the ever-loving fuck was that?” Bahorel asked, tone low, and menacing. He had never had that tone directed at him before, and it made his stomach turn unpleasantly. Feuilly knew he was probably standing about two feet behind him, foot tapping, arms crossed, but he couldn’t bear to turn and make sure.

“I’m sorry,” Feuilly said, staring at the pan, but genuinely meaning it. “I honestly am sorry.”

“Not an excuse, dickwad,” Bahorel said. “Turn around so I can yell at your face.” Feuilly took a deep breath, and turned. Bahorel was standing exactly as he imagined, though his face was a bit angrier than Feuilly had envisioned.

“Hi,” Feuilly said, after a second, immediately wincing.

“Hi? Hi? You don’t get to do that shit.”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay—”

“No,” Bahorel said, furious, walking up close to Feuilly’s face. Feuilly winced and closed his eyes, expecting a blow that never came. “What the fuck are you doing?” Bahorel said, tone so radically different that Feuilly opened up his eyes in surprise. “Are you flinching from me?”

“Uh,” Feuilly said eloquently.

“I’m not going to hit you, Jesus Christ,” Bahorel said, tone completely mellowed. “I’m pissed, but I wouldn’t hurt you. You know that, don’t you?”

“I’d deserve it,” Feuilly said weakly.

“Eh, maybe,” Bahorel said. They stood in silence for a second, before Bahorel turned on his heel, and jumped on the couch. “I’m going to put on Halo.”

And like that, it was probably over. At least, for now. Bahorel was good at that in a way Feuilly never was – moving on from fights almost immediately, forgiving and forgetting. Feuilly wasn’t stupid enough to think Bahorel would never bring it up again, that they wouldn’t hash it out, but he could understand and take a peace offering when it was handed to him on a silver platter.

“I’m going to finish the brownies,” Feuilly called back, voice wavering a bit.

About ten minutes later, Bahorel grew tired of just sitting on the couch by himself. “Feuilly, will you get your skinny ass the fuck over here?”

“Hold on,” Feuilly yelled, “there’s a spider in the cupboard behind the bowls and I am trying to kill it.”

“Wait!” Bahorel hollered, loud enough for Feuilly to look up in surprise. Bahorel vaulted the couch, and jogged over to where Feuilly was crouching. “Let me see.” He said, bending down. Blinking in confusion, Feuilly pointed to the back corner, where a black spider the size of dime was hiding.

“I’m trying to kill it, but its fast.” Feuilly explained, waving a rolled up newspaper in front of Bahorel’s face. Bahorel’s eyes widened comically.

“Don’t fucking kill it!” He said, hitting Feuilly on the back of the shoulder, hard enough that he fell from his crouch onto his knees. “It didn’t do anything wrong, Jesus Christ, you freckled monster. Here, let me,” He said, gently shoving Feuilly out of the way. Feuilly scooted over, sitting on the floor like a child, watching Bahorel try to fit himself into a tiny cupboard to catch a spider. After around four minutes of grunts and swearing and heads hitting into tops of cupboards, Bahorel shouted, “Victory!” He shuffled out of the cupboard awkwardly, and showed Feuilly his cupped hands. “Now, let me show how you deal with spiders like a man.” He stood, and gestured with his elbow for Feuilly to follow him, which he did. They walked to the window, which Feuilly opened for him.

“There you go, little buddy,” Bahorel said, trying to let the spider out. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem that interested in coming off Bahorel’s hand, continuing to move in between his fingers. “Come off, you idiot,” Bahorel said, sounding a bit anxious. He waved his hand a little, and it continued moving around his fingers. “Feuilly,” Bahorel said, urgency lacing his voice, “You need to get it off me. Feuilly. Feuilly! It has eight legs and it doesn’t want to let go of me. _Feuilly_.” Laughing a little incredulously, Feuilly maneuvered the spider off his hand and onto the window ledge, which Bahorel promptly slammed shut.

“Well, that wasn’t quite as smooth as I wanted, but it was worth it in the end. The little spider can now go have a meet cute with another spider and shit and make tons of spider babies to spend holidays with in somebody else’s apartment. There is no need for brutality. Now come on, you little shit, I am going to absolutely slay your ass all over this fucking game if it goddamn kills me.” Bahorel tried to walk away, but Feuilly caught his arm. “What?” Bahorel asked.

Feuilly didn’t know what. He simply knew that something fond, something beyond fond, was bubbling so large and fully and warm in his chest that he couldn’t quite explain or contain it. All he knew was that Bahorel was a six-foot five monster who talked like a biker but was willing to save a spider so it could go on hypothetical vacations. All he knew was that suddenly containing his affection seemed a bit impossible; he felt like he wanted to burst with it, wanted to pop with it, wanted to dance and scream and shout it. But more than anything, he wanted Bahorel to know it. So, reaching in, he pulled Bahorel down for an incredibly tight hug, fisting his shirt behind his back with enough force to tear holes. Bahorel hugged back fiercely, if a bit confusedly, which only made Feuilly want to hug him tighter. He felt Bahorel breathe against him, shirt doing nothing to hide his warmth or sturdiness. Though he didn’t want to let go, thirty seconds was about the limit a hug could go without Bahorel wondering of his sanity, so Feuilly eased up, now only holding on to Bahorel’s arms. Absently, he noticed that his whole hand couldn’t fit around half of Bahorel’s bicep.

“What was that for?” Bahorel asked, his massively long arms still around Feuilly’s neck. Feuilly meant to come up with an explanation as to why he suddenly wanted to attack Bahorel with affection. He wanted to have a tirade about how Bahorel could be so brutal to people who were cruel, but was unfailingly kind to the innocent. He wanted to explain that he actually couldn’t stop smiling whenever he saw Bahorel pat someone on the head. He wanted to make a presentation about how endearing he found it that Bahorel got far too into video games and bar fights. He wanted to explain that there was nothing that made him smile more than to see Bahorel interact with his friends, whether it be assisting Combeferre in his dubious scientific experiments, or helping Jehan learn to braid, or exchanging puns with Grantaire, or helping Eponine learn self-defense. He wanted to comment on Bahorel’s bad choice in TV but excellent choice in take out, and how it always made his day better when Bahorel was there when he got home, and how somehow he just felt warmer and lighter whenever Bahorel was even in the room. He wanted to explain everything he loved about Bahorel, everything he loved from the start, everything he grew to appreciate, everything he respected, all he admired. Just — everything.

But none of this was coming out of his mouth. Instead, he was just staring into a bewildered Bahorel’s eyes.

“Hey dude, you okay, there? You kind look like you are having a mental meltdown,” He said, moving his arms down from his neck to hold his elbows.

“I am having a lot of positive feelings in your direction,” Feuilly blurted, face immediately heating, but unwilling to look away. “And I don’t know what to do with them, because I’ve never wanted to kiss a guy before, and I am still not sure I want to kiss you. But I want something, and a hug just didn’t quite make this feeling go away, of just wanting you, and wanting you to know how much I want you. And I don't know what kind of want, and I don’t know what to do with that, but just so you know, I am very, very fond of you, and you are causing me to have emotions right now that I don’t even know how to process.” Feuilly was red head to toe, face hot, but refusing to back down for Bahorel’s gaze. He expected a laugh, or some sort of ribbing, but instead Bahorel just looked vulnerable and tentatively hopeful.

“Okay, then,” Bahorel said, after a moment. “Would you maybe want to try kissing? See if that does it for you? Or maybe another hug? Or something?”

“I don’t know,” Feuilly said honestly.

“You’re not fucking with me, right? Because if you are, that’s really fucking mean and not funny at all, I mean it,” Bahorel said, voice going sharp, gaze narrowing.

“I’m not, I swear,” Feuilly said. “I’m just confused.”

“Do you want to sit down, maybe, so we’re not standing in the middle of the apartment holding each other’s arms?” Impossibly, Feuilly’s face flushed further. He cursed his Irish heritage.

“Right, of course,” He said, hastily dropping his arms, and awkwardly walking to the couch. Bahorel sat directly next to him, sides touching.

“So, positive emotions towards me,” Bahorel said after a moment. “I can work with that. What are you thinking?”

“Uh,” Feuilly said, staring at his feet. “Not much.”

“What were you thinking when you did it?” Bahorel asked, now frowning.

“Not much. It was sort of spur of the moment.”

“Okay, so, what do you want from me?”

“Um,” Feuilly said, looking down, now playing with his sleeve. It was quiet for a moment.

“You know,” Bahorel said, voice sharp. “This is actually really not fucking fair. You know that, right? You’ve been a complete shit about this entire thing, and this isn’t fair.”

“I know,” Feuilly muttered.

“Do you?” Bahorel said loudly. “Do you, though? Because I got up the guts to tell you, my best friend of years, that I was in love with you, and you shot me down. Which is fair, and totally your right, and you were very nice about it, but it still fucking hurt. And then you were a complete dickhead about Lillian, and then you still didn’t say you wanted me, even though you were sabotaging my date, and then you do this shit. You can’t just say you don’t want me and then act differently. That ain’t fucking fair to me. You’re into me or you aren’t, simple as that, and you gotta let me know.”

“Simple as that?” Feuilly repeated, head snapping up. “Simple as that? It is not as fucking simple as that. Do you know how much I have agonized over this? I went to the _Internet_ for advice, Bahorel. When that didn't help, I went and asked for Combeferre’s advice, the man I have said a grand total of three words to in my life. I don’t know how I feel, damn you,” he said, good feeling evaporating, and suddenly just feeling extremely annoyed. “I wish I could return your feelings totally, but I don’t. I don’t like fucking guys and that’s a fact. And I wish I could just not return your feelings at all, but I can’t do that either, because I like you, and I can’t help it. I like you, and I want to date you, but I don’t want to, and I don’t know what to do.”

“We can date, Feuilly,” Bahorel said. “We don’t have to fuck for that. I’m okay with you not wanting me like that, and I still want to date you.”

“I don’t know if I want that,” Feuilly snapped.

“You need to make a choice, Feuilly, on what you want from me. Because I can’t sit here in stagnant mode with my damn emotions. I either have to get over you or I don’t. And that’s your call, but you have to make it.” Bahorel sat there, arms crossed, gaze unflinching. After several moments of Feuilly sitting there silently, tongue completely tied, Bahorel took a deep sigh. “Well, alright then, I guess that’s my answer.” He shook his head, and walked into his bedroom, slamming the door. Feuilly sat on the couch, put his head in his hands, and didn’t move until the time beeped for the brownies thirty minutes later. Absently, he got up, turned off the oven, and stood in their kitchen. After barely a moment of contemplation, he turned, grabbed his beanie, his phone and his keys, and ran out the door.

* * *

Feuilly rapped on the door with a restless urgency he couldn’t quite explain. He waited several seconds, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet, before knocking on the door harder, faster. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, hand rapping with the urgency and beat of a drummer, unable to be still at all.

“I’m coming, my God,” he heard come from inside. A few seconds later, the door swung open, making Feuilly lurch forward slightly. Grantaire stared at him with no little surprise, arm leaning on the doorframe.

“Feuilly? Jesus Christ, I thought someone had died and the police were coming to question me. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?” Feuilly asked, evading the question. Before Grantaire could answer, he slipped under R's arm and into the room.

“Well, sure, come on in,” Grantaire muttered sarcastically to the empty doorway. Rolling his eyes, he shut the door, locking it. Turning, he saw Feuilly standing in the middle of his living room, for some reason sans shoes, which he had obviously just kicked off.

“You don’t need to take off your shoes. I don’t give a shit about dirt,” He said, gesturing to the general squalor around him.

“They were bothering me. Constraining my toes,” Feuilly said nonsensically, twisting his fingers.

“Okay, what’s up with you?” Grantaire said, crossing his arms.

“Can we drink?” Feuilly blurted. “I’ve heard you are always good for a drink, and I came here to drink, goddamn it, not be questioned. Because, Jesus,” he said, rubbing his face with his hands. “Do you know how invasive our friends are? Like, God, I know they mean well, and I know it’s only because they care about me and don’t want to see me upset. Bully for them, that’s great and all. But, God, sometimes I just want people to shut up and drink with me and leave me alone to me own damn feelings, and I don’t want to do it alone at a bar, because doing it with a friend just feels better. Fuck, you know? Goddamn it. Can we just drink?”

Grantaire was completely positive that was the most Feuilly had ever said to him, all previous experiences combined. But he completely understood the sentiment, more than he could express in words, so he just saluted, and went into the kitchen.

“I have pretty much near anything you could want. Preferences?”

“Anything that will get me plastered but still able to get up for a 6AM shift,” Feuilly said, following Grantaire into the kitchen.

“I think those are mutually exclusive.”

“Probably,” Feuilly said, dropping into a chair next to the bottle, magazine, and dish covered table. “But I can deal with the shift when it comes. Right now I just need the first part.”

“Vodka it is,” Grantaire said, bending down to get his shot glasses.

“Lovely,” Feuilly muttered, dropping his head onto the table. He lifted it with a jerk when Grantaire slammed down the bottle next to his head. He glared, grabbing a shot glass.

“Hit me with it,” Feuilly said, and Grantaire did.

Four shots later, Feuilly was feeling remarkably worse.

“Isn’t alcohol supposed to make you feel better? All I wanna to do now talk about it. And I don't wanna talk about it. But now I just need to like, say it.”

“You don’t have to, but if you want to, I am all ears,” Grantaire said, only sipping at his glass. After he was fairly certain Feuilly wouldn’t notice, he stopped taking his shots. He figured at least one of them had better conscious at the end of the night.

“It’s Bahorel,” Feuilly said into his arm, now sniffling.

“Come again?”

“Bahorel. You know, yay tall,” Feuilly said, pointing at the fridge, making Grantaire snort. “Long hair, boxes, is a general shit, terrible sense of humor, my best friend. That guy.”

“I’ve seen him around,” Grantaire said, laughing when Feuilly flipped him off. “What’d he do?”

“He’s just him,” Feuilly groaned. “He’s him and that’s completely enough to warrant this.”

“But you don’t do this everyday, so there has to be something I’m missing.”

“You know the whole thing with us? The thing that went down last week?” Feuilly asked, head now resting on the table, as he looked up at Grantaire.

“Uh, not really? I’m not the plugged into the gossip.” Feuilly snorted.

“That’s a complete lie,” he said.

“Not your gossip,” Grantaire corrected.

“He asked me out,” Feuilly said, closing his eyes. “And I said no, because I’m not homosexual. I don’t like sleeping with men. I’ve even tried it, R, seriously, and I don’t like it. It’s not for me. And I said that, he said he got it, and gave me a pat on the head with a smile, and I felt bad, and it was awkward, but it was okay, R, it was. But then he like, decided to go on a date with a girl. Her name was something flowery, I don’t know. He knew her from French class.”

“Lillian,” Grantarie supplied, having heard Bahorel mention it.

“Yes, Lillian, Lily,” Feuilly sneered. “The girl who laughs at everything. Laughing mistress ruined the best friendship of my whole fucking life.” He sighed, looking despondently at the half drunken bottle of liquor. “He had me meet her, and I was so inexplicably jealous I ended up blurting out that Bahorel likes screwing men more than women so it probably wouldn’t last long.” Grantaire winced. “Which isn’t even true, so it was doubly stupid. And he was rightfully so pissed at me. I didn’t even know why the hell I was so jealous, but I couldn’t even think. She was touching him on his arms, Grantaire, and I actually had to fight the urge to tear her hands off him. It was completely nonsensical. And he was totally pissed, rightfully telling me I had no right to sabotage his relationships when I didn’t want one with him. And I realized I actually might, maybe.”

At Grantaire’s slightly blank look, he elaborated. “Want one with him, that is.”

“But you’re straight?” Grantaire said, sympathy laced in his voice.

“I talked to Combeferre about it,” Feuilly said softly. “He told me all this shit about sexual orientations and romantic orientations that certainly explained it, but it didn’t fix it, you know? I still don’t want to sleep with him, but I don’t want anyone else to either? How is that fair? No one would agree to that, and no one should.” He went silent a moment, a silence which Grantaire did not fill.

“I talked to him about it. He said he was willing to give it a go anyway, he liked me enough. That it was fine that he was writing off sex just so we could hold hands and shit and be a bit more tactile with each other and have different labels. But I don’t even know if I want that, you know? I’m not sure I want to write off sex forever for that, and I’m not even sure I like him like that, you know? It’s natural to feel jealous over your friendships, to not want to be replaced, and we are really close. It’s really hard to tell if it’s more than that or not. And I don’t want to write off sex and it’s not fair to ask him to, when he’s done nothing wrong at all. And he is always going to want something that I don’t want to do, and that’s not really fair to either of us, and I don’t even know what I want from him. I can’t ask him just to keep himself single and playing video games with me forever. I just am like, the most selfish bastard around, you know? And I hate it. I want what is best for him. I want him to be happy. And he wants to be happy with me, but I don’t think it’d work out, and it’s just a clusterfuck.” He grabbed the vodka bottle, and took a massive swig. “And all I really want to do right now is break something. I want to hit somebody so hard they double over. I want to destroy your table. I want to fucking chuck your shot glasses at the wall.”

“Do it,” Grantaire said mildly, gesturing to them. “I have like, hundreds. When you’re a drunk and have a lot of acquaintances, they become a bit of a default present. Here,” He said, standing up, his chair scraping against the floor, making scuff marks from being pushed back. He went under the sink and grabbed a packet he kept there, full of them. “Have at it.”

“You serious?” Feuilly said, one eye open, staring at Grantaire.

“Yeah, whatever. If it makes you feel better, go for it.” Feuilly hesitated a moment, as if waiting for Grantaire to retract that statement; all he did was sit back down in his chair, putting his feet on a table. After a moment, Feuilly lifted his head from the table, and stood, looking at the basket of shot glasses. He reached down and grabbed the first. Without a second thought to it, he threw it with all his force at the wall. Grantaire didn’t flinch.

“Fuck all of this,” Feuilly said, grabbing another, slamming it up against the oven. Over and over, he went through twenty four glasses, all his might, all his force, all his anger and frustration pelting them through his arm. When he ran out, he placed his hands on the table, head bent, panting.

“Should I grab the ones in my closet?” Grantaire asked. 

“No,” he said after a moment. “No. It’s not helping.”

“Never does,” Grantaire said. Feuilly looked up.

“How would you know? Why are you so quiet about all of this?”

“I am well versed in inaction in the name of love,” Grantaire said, shrugging. “I have no room to judge.”

“You probably do, actually,” said Feuilly. "You’ve never hurt someone in the name of love.”

“I’ve hurt myself enough that it’s probably worse,” Grantaire replied, shrugging again. Feuilly couldn’t really think of a response to that. “Do you want to play a video game, get out some of the excess energy?”

“Sure,” Feuilly said, moving to follow Grantaire into the living room. “Anything shooter.”

“Unfortunately, I am broke as fuck, and all I have is a Gamecube I bought at Salvation Army. And the only game I have came with it, and it is Animal Crossing. But feel free to play my character,” He said, tossing the control at Feuilly. Feuilly sighed, but went to start the game.

About forty minutes later, Grantaire shuffled back into the room after a shower. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked, watching Feuilly systematically pluck every single weed in the town. It was a boring, monotonous job, which was why Grantaire never bothered. But Feuilly was making his way through the entire town, aggressively pushing down B, and occasionally swearing as the character took too long to bend down and pull it.

“Sure,” Feuilly said, sounding extremely insincere.

Grantaire pulled a face, but walked back out, not knowing exactly what to offer this time. He came back in twenty minutes later at hearing Feuilly cursing loudly.

“What happened?” Grantaire asked. The character was just standing next to the river, holding a fishing pole, while Feuilly looked like the world had about imploded. He was clutching his pants, knuckles white, rocking, eyes clutched shut.

“I was just trying to fish, and I felt the rumble, so I pressed A, but I was too damn late and the fish got away, and it is so goddamn frustrating.”

Grantaire silently turned off the TV, and went and sat next to Feuilly. He sat there quietly and still, as Feuilly rocked silently next to him, all his muscles obviously tense and wired. After about a minute, he placed his arm around Feuilly. Almost immediately, Feuilly burst into tears, shoving his face into Grantaire’s chest. His sobs weren’t quiet, but they weren’t hysterical; just the inevitable reaction Feuilly knew was eventually coming. Grantaire just kept his arm tight around him, watching his own shirt grow damp, gripping Feuilly’s plaid shoulder probably stronger than was comfortable. Only about five minutes passed before the tears quieted, slowed, and stopped. Feuilly still didn’t move his head.

“I hate tears,” he said into Grantaire’s t-shirt. “They’re so pointless. Make me feel pointless. Young.” Grantaire just rubbed his arm, silently agreeing, having felt that way more times than he could count. “‘m tired,” Feuilly said after a moment, his eyes closed on Grantaire’s chest.

“Here, lay down on the couch. I’ll grab you a blanket.” Feuilly pulled back, and fell back the other way into the couch with a humph. Grantaire quickly grabbed him a blanket from the closet, and came back to see Feuilly on his phone.

“Just setting my alarm,” he said, with a very tired smile. His face was still marked with tear tracks, his eyes still blotchy and red. “6AM shift. Didn’t bring my clothes. Gotta be out of here by 4.”

“Can’t you call in?” Grantaire said, handing him the blanket. “You could use a day off, and you’ll be hung over.”

“Technically, I could,” Feully said, spreading the blanket over his legs. “I could text Sharon and tell her I’m sick. But I need the fifty dollars I’d make there to pay for groceries this week, or else I don’t eat. So I really can’t. Be nice, though,” he said, laying his head back, closing his eyes. “No other shifts tomorrow. But you know the life,” he said, words starting to slur.

“Yeah, suppose so,” Grantaire said. Giving up the dying conversation, Grantaire got up and got himself ready for bed. When he finished, he came back to a snoring Feuilly. Looking down at him, who somehow was able to look unrestful even in sleep, Grantaire took a long sigh. Shaking his head, he grabbed Feuilly’s phone and texted the contact “Sharon,” and then turned off his alarm. Silently, he padded to his own room, opened up the top drawer to his dresser, and grabbed a faded and creased yellow envelope from under his socks. Opening it, he took out crinkled bills, around fifteen of them, ranging from $1 to $20. He found four tens and two fives, and placed them aside. He quietly placed the envelope back under his socks, closed the drawer, picked up the money, and went back to where Feuilly was sleeping. Staring down at his form, twisted at an odd angle due to his couch, Grantaire couldn’t help but feel a wave of understanding. He and Feuilly were on opposite sides of spectrum, even more than he and Enjolras; Feuilly was the working man, the man who never sat down, never stopped, faced all head on, the completely independent, the self reliant man. Grantaire was educated to the point of pretentious, nihilistic, a homebody, struggled to keep down a job, slacked off, avoided all possible fragile situations, and was emotionally clingy to the point of embarrassing himself. And yet, Feuilly had stumbled into the same misfortune Grantaire had - the heart confusing the head. Grantaire never understood him more, and fairly doubted he ever would again. Without a second thought, he placed the money under Feuilly’s phone, took off his beanie and placed it on the table, and padded to his room. His door shut with a click that Feuilly didn’t hear, lost the world of restless dreams.

* * *

 Feuilly woke to a splitting headache and the sun in his eyes. Groaning loudly, he sat up, holding his head, feeling like death and his mouth tasting a bit like opossum. After a moment, his eyes widened almost comically - if the sun was up, it was far past his shift. With a panic, he grabbed his phone, his heart skipping a beat when he saw 11AM. He also saw he had a text from Sharon, his boss. He had never been late to a job before in his life, and desperately had never wanted to start that. Breathing quickly, he opened the text, which confusedly said _That’s alright, dear, you deserve a day off. Feel better soon - get lots of rest!_ Staring blankly at it, his gaze shifted over to the table, where his beanie and a tiny stack of money sat. With a sudden complete understanding, he glanced at his previous texts sent to Sharon, and found one sent at about 2AM the night before.

Feuilly knew that there were some gestures where it was polite to pretend to decline first, to have a bit of righteous indignation and pretend independence before accepting; there were some gestures that actually deserved real indignation, well meaning as they may be, for they could cross some boundaries; there were some that called for gratuitous thanking and gratitude; and there were some gestures where it was kindest to not acknowledge them at all, to let it be an unspoken agreement between a need, kindness, and gratefulness, and to let it be thanked with silence. And so Feuilly took the money off the table, slipped it in his pocket, put on his shoes and beanie, and quietly slipped out the door.

* * *

“Bahorel?” He called, walking into the apartment, feeling a ball of nerves in his stomach. He was so damn sick of feeling nervous and tired. “Bahorel?”

“I’m here, I’m here. I’m in the bathroom.” Throwing off his jacket, Feuilly took a moment to smooth his plaid shirt, and make sure he looked presentable. Not that it would matter to Bahorel, but in felt important all the same.

“What are you up to?” He asked, walking into the bathroom. Bahorel was sitting in the full bathtub, in his bathing suit, wearing yellow gloves, and holding a sponge.

“Cleaning, I think. That was the original purpose. But we ran out of cleaner after a few minutes, so I just filled the tub, and then put sugar in the water?”

“Why?” Feuilly asked, eyebrows raised.

“I don’t really know,” Bahorel said, sounding confused himself. “I think I was thinking that the dirt would cling to the sugar? You know, like in girl’s soaps, where they have the miniature beads, and it makes your hands cleaner?”

“Girl’s soaps,” Feuilly repeated.

“Yeah, you know. Is sugar water a cleaner?”

“I don’t think so, Bahorel,” Feuilly answered, voice betraying the fondness and exasperation he just could never keep at bay where he was concerned.

“Well, I had good intentions, anyway. Want to join me?” He asked, waggling his eyebrows, while taking off the yellow gloves. Although obviously joking, Feuilly just shrugged, and toed off his shoes. With nonchalance he definitely didn’t feel, and with _fuck it_ repeating in his head, he stepped into the bath, socks, jeans, plaid shirt and all. He sat down, settling in between Bahorel’s legs.

“Hi,” he said, feeling a little foolish. Bahorel was staring at him with astonishment.

“Hi,” Bahorel repeated, a beat too late. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Right,” Feuilly said. The water was warm, and seeping into all the wrong places. His jeans felt heavy, and his socks felt incredibly uncomfortable. He couldn’t remember why he didn’t take them off when he took off his shoes. Water lapped quietly at the sides of the tub, as they sat silently staring at each other, both confused on how they had gotten to this position.

“So,” Feuilly said after a moment, hands playing in the water, making tiny ripples. “I had something I wanted to talk to you about, actually.”

“I take it it couldn’t have waited?” Bahorel said. For some reason, he picked up the sponge, and put it on top of Feuilly’s head. Not knowing a proper response, Feuilly ignored it.

“No, I don’t want to lose my nerve.” He nodded to himself, and took a breath. “Okay, so with this whole you-me situation thing,” He started, noting the way Bahorel tensed. “I’ve been thinking about it more and more, and I am definitely into you. In a romantic and totally nonsexual way. And I don’t know about kissing, but I just don’t want to do the other stuff. But I’ve also been thinking about it, and the other stuff doesn’t matter so much to me. Yeah, I mean, I enjoy sex and all, but all this time I have been fighting with you, you know how much I’ve went out and got laid? Let me tell you – zero. When you’re sitting at a bar and just wishing someone else was sitting next to you spilling the salt so they can make pictures with it, it becomes difficult to pull. And I didn’t want to pull. I just wanted you. And then when we sort of made up, I realized that, like, I spent all of my time with you anyway. I wanted to. I didn’t want to go out to bars, I just wanted to hang with you. And, like, I wouldn’t mind doing that on a bit more of a touchy basis. And like, a dating basis. And I am not sure I am going to be cool with that forever, but you know what, who the hell knows what they are going to want forever? It’s dating, not fucking marriage. If I change my mind, I do, and that’s that, but right now, I am willing to give it a try. And I realized it is really fucking stupid to try to tell you what you’re feeling and what you should be willing to give up, so I am not going to do that. So here’s what I am laying out for you, Bahorel,” Feuilly stopped, taking a deep breath, still staring at the water. He was too nervous to see his expression. “I want to date you. I will make you microwave meals, and wake you up when I am leaving for shifts. I will play video games with you, and lose at them to make you feel better when the time calls for it. I will dance badly to music, and I will watch you sing badly along with the Voice. I will come to all your matches, and watch from afar with bar fights, but patch you up later. I will lay with you on the couch, and cuddle, and sleep in the same bed as you. And I will love you with every inch of my affection and the deep respect of my freckled heart. And that’s all I have to offer. I can’t promise anything else, but that I can give you. And I am willing to try, if you want to.” He stopped. Bahorel didn’t say anything, making the pit in Feuilly’s stomach drop lower, and lower, and lower, until he felt like he might as well have been fired from a job, or worse. He played with the water, making ripples, determined not to take the coward’s way out and leave the tub.

“You know,” Bahorel said, voice sounding a little watery. “You said all that with a sponge on your head?” Feuilly looked up, seeing Bahorel’s exceptionally tender, but still amused, expression. He breathed out a sigh.

“Fuck you,” he said mildly, taking the sponge off his head and throwing it at Bahorel, who laughed as it bounced off his forehead. “Bare my heart and all you comment on is a fucking sponge.”

“I have comments,” Bahorel said, now sounding serious. “Many, actually. But I have a history of saying things wrong with you, and I want to get this right.” Feuilly nodded. Bahorel played with the sponge for a moment, before muttering something that sounded like _keep this thing on a shrine_. “Okay, Feuilly, here is my poetry for you.” Bahorel met his eyes, holding his glance – he always had been braver. “It would be my privilege to be with you for as long as we both want it, however fucking long or short that might be, and to love you for far longer. And you’re a dumbass if you didn’t already know that.” Feuilly snorted in surprise, mouth curling into an irrepressible smile. They sat silently in the tub for a moment, awkwardly grinning at one another.

“Now what?” Feuilly asked.

“I’d love to get out of this tub and celebrate somehow.”

“How?” Feuilly asked, standing up. Water rushed off of him, and he could suddenly feel how heavy his jeans were, and how disgustingly soppy his socks were.

“That’s up to you. Usually by a good fuck, and as that isn’t really the case here, I’m shit out of ideas. We can make tacos.”

“You’re wooing me already, baby,” Feuilly said dryly, winking at him. Bahorel rolled his eyes, and climbed out of the tub.

“Do you want a fucking medal? _I confessed my liking to a man who already confessed he was in love with me._ All the bravery awards - that must have been so hard.” Feuilly narrowed his eyes at him. He waited until Bahorel had turned around, and then jumped squarely on his back, making Bahorel welp in surprise.

“That was hard for me, you dolt,” Feuilly said, wacking him on the head.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Bahorel said, spinning in a circle, trying to dislodge Feuilly. “You are so fucking uncomfortably wet, and not even in a sexy way.”

Feuilly laughed, clinging all the tighter. After a moment, Bahorel gave up spinning, and just ran into the living room to the couch.

“Bahorel, no,” Feuilly said, already anticipating the plan, knowing Bahorel far too well for this to work out.

“Bahorel, yes,” he answered, and jumped on the couch, back and Feuilly first, knocking most of the wind out of him.

“You’re a dick,” Feuilly wheezed, chuckling.

“Maybe a little, but you jumped on me, you wet kangaroo. Shit, you’re making the couch wet.” Bahorel turned around, so he was straddling Feuilly. As he caught his eye, the mood abruptly switched. He began to sit up, not wanting Feuilly to feel awkward, but Feuilly grabbed his arm, anchoring him in place.

“No, wait. Let’s try it.”

“Try what?” Bahorel asked, completely serious now.

“Kissing. I’m not totally averse to kissing. And you know, maybe something else, someday. No promises, but we can see. But like, kissing is fairly universal, right?” Bahorel shrugged, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “Let’s try it.”

“Wait,” Bahorel said, sitting up.

“What now?”

“I want to have a shirt on for this. And pants.”

“Oh my God,” Feuilly said loudly. “We're both soaking wet, you don’t have a shirt on, who the hell cares? Let’s do this.”

“No, I want a shirt on. Final answer. While I am gone, you think about if you really want to kiss me.” With that, he bounded off Feuilly, leaving him as an exasperated wet lump on the couch. Only two minutes later, he came back in, in a white, slightly too small t-shirt, and baggy sweatpants. When he got close, Feuilly grabbed his wrist.

“Come on, let’s try this,” Feuilly pulled him so he was straddling him once again.

“No pressure, or anything, just trying to change your sexuality,” Bahorel muttered, making Feuilly roll his eyes.

“Not change it, maybe just bend it.” Feuilly closed his eyes, just feeling Bahorel hold the back of his head. After a moment, he felt Bahorel’s breath on his lips, but he didn’t lean down and close the space.

“Come on, man,” Feuilly breathed, warm breath swirling around Bahorel’s lips. “Just kiss me like real couples do.” Bahorel smiled, before taking a deep breath, leaning down, and kissing him softly.

The kiss didn’t feel like much in and of itself; Bahorel’s lips were chapped, and the pressure of the press was nice, though his beard felt a little weird and his mouth was a bit bigger than what Feuilly was used to. Most importantly, though, Feuilly could feel every inch of Bahorel’s wide smile, and that was enough to try again.

It wasn’t spectacular. Bahorel could tell that he was into it more than Feuilly, and vise versa. Feuilly desperately wanted to enjoy it a bit more than he did, but it was simply just a bit awkward when he wasn’t overly attracted to Bahorel, and he accidentally kept imagining hair to grasp on to when kissing.

But it wasn’t bad, Feuilly noted. Awkward, and weird, and he wasn’t sure, that’s for certain, but he thought that maybe this was something he could get used to, over time, and with practice. Or not, possibly. More importantly than the nine minutes spent kissing, though, were the six hours they spent attempting to make tacos, where neither wanted to be anywhere else in the world. And for now, that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know your thoughts and reactions and feelings. I enjoyed writing it, and I thank you all for clicking it, and thus giving yourself the opportunity to enjoy it too.
> 
> Say hi on [tumblr](http://raeldaza.tumblr.com) if you so want.


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